


Follow Where You Go

by ilookedback



Series: Hyggetober Challenge Ficlets [16]
Category: Prospect (2018)
Genre: Babyfic, Established Relationship, F/M, Sappy, big sister cee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:21:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27090052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilookedback/pseuds/ilookedback
Summary: He works it out quickly, clever, resourceful man that he is. After a flash of heartbreak realizing there are two of them and just his one arm to hold them, he fixes up a sling to carry them both, strapped comfortably to his chest. He wears them like the tiny extensions of himself that they are, their little faces like soft, rounded miniatures of his own where they poke out of the top of the carrier. Their eyes go drowsy, soothed by the rumbling vibrations of his deep voice, quietly humming or talking to them as he works.
Relationships: Ezra (Prospect 2018)/Reader
Series: Hyggetober Challenge Ficlets [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952407
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	Follow Where You Go

**Author's Note:**

> For day 16 of my Hyggetober Ficlet Challenge, which is based off of [this prompt list](https://www.instagram.com/p/B201-j7ljdU/?igshid=1pflwcl5260me) and will span several Pedro fandoms. Today's prompt is "outdoors."
> 
> In my mind this follows [In So Many Words](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27009721), but it can be read as a standalone.

When he finds out, he smiles, because he always does laugh in the face of terrifying prospects. He tells you it is a privilege and the honor of his life, and his voice is solemn and you think, there is too much truth in his tone for it to be a lie.

When the time comes, he holds your hand and presses his face to your shoulder and you finally see a glimpse of fear in his eyes before he hides it away and coaxes you to match the pattern of his unwavering breaths. He looks so young in that split second where his face is open—vulnerable and scared and full of cautious, desperate hope.

It looks like how you feel inside, and seeing yourself reflected in him bolsters you more than the breathing ever could.

He works it out quickly, clever, resourceful man that he is. After a flash of heartbreak realizing there are two of them and just his one arm to hold them, he fixes up a sling to carry them both, strapped comfortably to his chest. He wears them like the tiny extensions of himself that they are, their little faces like soft, rounded miniatures of his own where they poke out of the top of the carrier. Their eyes go drowsy, soothed by the rumbling vibrations of his deep voice, quietly humming or talking to them as he works.

He brings them to you hungry and it’s a joint effort to remove them from his chest so they can latch onto yours. He watches you in amused wonder, calls them greedy when they suckle deeply, but his hand is gentle when he brushes it over your cheek as he stands to fetch you a glass of water from the kitchen.

His touch is still as knowing and firm as it ever was. He grabs at your hip when he’s brushing past, and cradles your neck when he wants a kiss. Stretches his fingers to splay over the babies, resting across their twin bellies where they lie next to each other on the bed. You have never seen a man more grateful for his fingers than he is when their tiny hands clutch at him, one around his pinky and one around his thumb, and he never, ever pulls away before they do.

Cee is the best reader you’ve ever known. When he’d brought her home, his first almost-daughter, she’d gone wide-eyed and dumbstruck at the shelves of books in the house. She reads aloud, now, a babe tucked in on each side next to her in the overstuffed living room chair, and you listen in from the kitchen or your own corner of the room as she makes her way through literature decades beyond their developmental stage, and probably still a few years beyond her own. It washes over you the same way it must over them, more about her steady, patient voice than anything else.

 _It’s good for her_ , he tells you, hushed conversation together in the kitchen where he is picking a bowl of cherries off their stems, ready for you to pit. _She gets to be a leader now_.

The babies grow, and they follow where she goes, and gradually the two of you watch her bloom.

You watch them out the window, your wild ones. Grass-stained and dirt-smudged and with their matching pairs of sparkling eyes, curious and fearless. There is plenty to explore out there, mysterious insects and interesting flowers and rocks that could be fossils if your father tells you they are and you’re too young to know the difference. He tells them plenty of things, and some of them are true, and some days you sit outside with them just to hear the rambling thoughts he shares, narrating the world around them. The most egregious falsehoods Cee will call him on, and he shrugs and grins like, _okay, you caught me_ , but other times he shares an unlikely fact and you don’t know and she doesn’t know and you think probably he doesn’t even know exactly the status of its veracity.

But it makes their faces shine, enraptured, and sometimes you get so caught up in him you feel yourself glow with it, too.


End file.
